


Wax and Wane

by Zoeleo



Category: Original Work
Genre: Civil War, Crossdressing, Gender Identity, Gender Issues, Historical, Historical Fantasy, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2018-11-05 16:07:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11016837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoeleo/pseuds/Zoeleo
Summary: Charlotte Rigby is working as a nurse at Chimbarazo Hospital during the final days of the Civil War, when she is approached by Owen Foster, an agent from the Office of Missing Soldiers, for aid in identifying the dead and wounded that come through. She is still struggling to come to terms with her own painful past when the war ends and catapults her into an uncertain future. She finds some purpose in joining Foster in his mission to bring closure to the families of missing soldiers, until one day they come across the name of Owen's younger brother in a prisoner of war camp register...Except Owen's brother died years before the war ever began.





	1. May 7, 1863

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all, I'm assuming if you're coming to this because you've subscribed to me via my Batman fics - this is clearly something a bit different, and I hope you give it a chance even if it's not your typical cup of tea. This is a project I've had on my mind for a long time and am cautiously testing the waters on. Constructive critique is not only welcome but encouraged, more so than in my other fics. I happen to work at a Civil War site and have access to tons of artifacts and primary documents, so this is pretty extensively researched to make things as realistic as possible. However, if you are a Civil War nerd and see something anachronistic or just plain wrong - please let me know so I can fix it. Well. Here we go.

_May 7, 1863. After the battle at Chancellorsville._

His thigh is bleeding again. Red is seeping through the bandages hastily applied at the field hospital before he was loaded into the train car with the rest of the wounded. He should probably do something about that, but that would mean moving Jesse. He stares at the black-haired head in his lap and runs his right hand through the stiff strands, gently working through blood and tangles. The fingers of his left hand are twined between Jesse’s, grip so tight his knuckles show the white bones underneath. He thinks he may be squeezing too hard when he feels the joints creak, but Jesse doesn’t make a sound in protest. Charlie figures Jesse will forgive him a few broken fingers.

One day, when this is all over and they’re back home sitting on the pier in the sun with bare toes trailing through the water, Jesse will bump his shoulder against Charlie and say, “Hey, remember that one time you decided a pig-sticker in the ribs wasn’t bad enough, so you had to go and break my fingers too?” They’ll both laugh, and then Charlie will counter with the time Jesse pushed him out of a tree and he bit through his lip when he landed. Charlie will pull on his bottom lip and point to the scar. It will turn into a competition. They’ll take turns rolling up their sleeves, lifting up their shirts, and tugging at the hems of their trousers, pointing to the light and dark lines that cut through their skin and telling the stories that go with them. They don’t need to, they both already know all of the marks on each other and how they got there. But it’s fun to tell the stories. Once all of their layers are shed Charlie will jump into the ocean and Jesse will swim out after him. Jesse’s hands will be warm on his hips in the cold Atlantic water—

A screaming whistle cuts through Charlie’s fantasia. The movement of the train changes, sending a fresh wave of misery through the men packed inside. Jesse whimpers and Charlie makes soothing sounds that get lost in the roar of the engines. At least Charlie thinks it was Jesse who whimpered. He’s gotten quieter with every mile that goes by. It’s okay though, because Charlie can feel the train starting to slow; they are almost there. He lowers his head until his lips light against Jesse’s ear.

“It’s okay. We made it, we made it. They’re going to take good care of you here. Get you all patched up soon.”

Charlie plants a quick kiss to the curved shell of cartilage. He lets his mouth linger there. He doesn’t have the energy to raise it back up. The screech of brakes seems to go on forever and Charlie wishes he could cover his ears without letting go of Jesse. Finally, the harsh sound lets up. The car jolts as the doors are pulled open and the dark box is flooded with light. Men climb into the car and move between the bodies of the wounded. Charlie blinks against the bright square of sunlight. He can just make out more men waiting outside the train car with stretchers. One by one, soldiers are picked up and carried away. The medics buzz around in a flurry of organized chaos that Charlie is having a hard time tracking.

A man with kind brown eyes crouches in front of Charlie. His mouth opens and closes as he talks. He tells them that they’ve arrived in Richmond and he’s going to take Charlie to Seabrook Hospital to take a look at his leg. Charlie frowns when the man doesn’t say anything about Jesse. Maybe it’s because Jesse’s eyes are closed and he doesn’t want to wake him up. Something pulls at Charlie’s wrist and he looks down. The man is tugging at his hand, trying to pry apart Jesse and Charlie’s interlocked fingers. Charlie snarls at him. They can’t separate them, not now. They can take them together and give them adjoining cots in the hospital. Hell, if there aren’t enough cots they can lay them side-by-side on the floor. Charlie doesn’t care as long as he and Jesse get to stay next to each other. The man ignores Charlie’s shouts and weak efforts to fend him off, eventually succeeding in straightening out Charlie’s claw like grip on his partner. The world lurches.

When it settles again, Charlie is staring up at blue skies. Robin’s egg blue with little puffs of clouds. Before he can pick out shapes in them, the sky is gone, replaced with mildewing canvas. Charlie wonders if everything was a dream; the train ride and the battle before it. Maybe they never actually left camp that morning and he’s staring up at the same pathetic scrap of cloth he and Jesse have been sharing for the past year. Except it’s too big. There are too many people in this tent and they don’t have to crawl to fit inside. They stand full tall as they move about, speaking in crisp, efficient voices.

The man with the kind eyes reappears and Charlie asks him where Jesse is. The man shakes his head and is joined by an older woman. There are deep lines at the corners of her mouth and her apron is smeared with red that varies from bright crimson to dull rust. Charlie asks for Jesse again, louder, in case they didn’t hear him the first time. They keep talking, glancing down at him occasionally, but they don’t respond to his demands. The man reaches for the waistband of Charlie’s trousers. Charlie tries to brush them away, but they doggedly work at unfastening his suspenders. Memories flash through his mind of other groping hands, greedily trying to pull the clothing away from his body, and Charlie struggles harder. Jesse isn’t here to stop them this time. Panic claws up his throat when the man continues undeterred. Charlie lashes out, hissing. The woman puts a hand on the man’s shoulder, holding him at bay. She looks down at Charlie with impatience.

“Honey, stop,” she commands. “There’s a ball in your thigh, and it can’t stay there. You don’t let us take these off, I’ll just cut em off. Trust me, it ain’t nothing we haven’t seen before. I raised five boys before this damn war even started. We got no room for modesty here.”

Charlie stops. Not because he’s comforted by her words at all, but because his limbs have stopped responding. He’s too weak to prevent them from unwinding the bandage around his thigh and forcing his pants past his hips. Charlie cries out in pain as the rough fabric brushes over the hole torn in his flesh. His gasp is echoed by the pair above him.

“Oh, _honey_ ,” is the last thing he hears before everything goes dark.


	2. March 1, 1865

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excerpts are taken from real newspapers (from the March 1, 1865 issue of the Richmond newspaper. Available on Library of Congress's 'Chronicling America.) The letter is modeled off a patchwork of real letters submitted to Clara Barton and the Office of Missing Soldiers, which you can also peruse if you look hard enough but I forgot the link. The Office of Missing Soldiers is a real thing. It's super cool, you should check it out. Excision saws are terrifying - we have several in the museum I work at. You should also check those out. Chloroform is _NOT_ like how you see in movies. It takes like 9 minutes to safely knock someone out with it. And their bodies will still react to stimuli sometimes - it's weird. Do NOT google pictures of Gangrene. Just take my word for it.

_March 1, 1865 - Chimbarazo Hospital, Richmond, VA_

“ _General Order No. 2, Headquarters Armies of the Confederate States, applies to enlisted men undergoing sentence or trial, under charges or in arrest, for desertion or absence without leave, with the exceptions hereinbefore mentioned; and all men who under this paragraph, are entitled to pardon will be at once released from arrest and restored to duty,_ ” Charlie reads aloud from _The Daily Dispatch_ to the four men gathered nearby.

“Deserters,” George snarls from where he’s reclined, “Buncha cowards. Should be hanging ‘em, not pardoning ‘em.” He tosses a hand-rolled cigarette on the empty crate they’ve pulled up between the cots as a makeshift table.

“That’s what you get when you start conscripting men that don’t want to be there in the first place,” Samuel counters. “Aces high or low?” He starts dealing out cards.

There’s a muttered chorus of “High.”

“Don’t make no difference,” George maintains. “There’s a lot o’ things I didn’t want to do, but I god damn did because it was something that needed ta be done.”

“I don’t know,” Amos offers meekly from where he’s perched at the foot of George’s cot, “I can understand it—wanting to go home.”

George glares at the young private from Georgia like he might just kick him off if he still had his legs.

“I just mean… One of the men in my company, he got a letter from his wife saying that their pigs had been stolen and she was begging him to come home, afraid they were gonna starve if he didn’t. I reckon if I got a letter like that from my mama, I’d want to up and go too.” Amos stares at the cards in his hands, avoiding the gazes of the others.

George starts to growl out a retort but Samuel cuts him off tactfully, “So what else does the paper say, Charlie?”

Charlie looks back down at the paper spread over her knees and skims the articles, “Quartermaster is begging for guns again. There’s a chestnut-sorrel mare for sale, 8 years old. Colonel Maurice Langhorne, one of the oldest citizens of Lynchburg, died on the 20th of pneumonia. A farmer named Humphrey Marshall was mauled by a mountain lion or something out in Russel County. Oh!—Looks like France and England will be at it again soon. The Yanks think as soon as the Union has ‘ _picked the bones of the Southern Confederacy’ that we should observe a ‘rigid neutrality between the two belligerents and never so much as to offer our intervention or give our moral weight to either of the combatants_.’”

George rolls his eyes. “Who gives a goddamn what the English and the Frenchies get up to with each other?”

“Bastards, already talking like they’ve won,” grumbles the last man, Josiah.

He adds a plug of chewing tobacco into the pot. Josiah doesn’t speak much on account of the thick scars that warp his mouth and cheeks. Rumor was he’d taken a bayonet to the face.

“There’s still meat enough on this bird to fight a while yet. Long as we keep Petersburg we still have a chance. ‘ _Pick the bones_ ,’ my ass,” George commiserates, frowning at his cards. “Check.”

Charlie snorts wryly. She rarely agrees with the grizzled veteran from North Carolina, but she finds herself begrudgingly charmed by his bluntness.

“What kind of bird do you reckon?” she can’t help but ask.

“Well, an eagle, of course,” George snaps without pause.

“Union already took the eagle. Wouldn’t want to look like we’re copying them now, would ya?” Sam replies absently, assessing his hand with shrewd eyes.

George gives a growl, “Damn turkey vulture is what they should be.”

Josiah and Sam nod in agreement.

A shy smile tugs at Amos’ mouth. “Hey, did y’all know that Benjamin Franklin thought the national bird should’a been a turkey instead of an eagle? Maybe that’s what it should be!”

George wrinkles his nose. “Bull _shit_.”

“No really! He said bald eagles are birds of bad moral character because they’re lazy and steal the fish other birds have caught. But the turkey is more respectable, a bird of courage,” Amos persists to Charlie’s amusement.

“Where in the hell did you hear that?” George guffaws. “A bird of courage. Maybe if we armed the turkeys and sent them out for us we would’ve routed the Yankees at Franklin and I’d still be hopping around on two feet.”

“Hell, might not be a bad idea. You ever tangle with one of those ugly gobblers? Gotta watch out for them spurs on their feet. Can do some damage if you’re not careful,” Sam muses sagely.

Chastened, Amos turns to Charlie, attempting to switch the conversation to a new track. “Nurse Rigby, why don’t you play a round with us? Sam can deal you in.”

Josiah glances up from his hand, eyebrows raised.

Sam shakes his head in warning. “Oh son, you don’t want that. Trust me.”

Amos looks around in confusion. “I didn’t mean any disrespect,” he desperately backtracks. “Just, since you always—”

Sam starts to laugh. “No, no,” he waves a hand, “because she will clean you out. She’ll clean all of us out. And I got my eye on that tobacco.”

Charlie scowls at her lanky friend, but there’s no heat behind it. She leans forward to inspect the small pile of detritus that makes up the pot: a few envelopes, a pencil, two cigarettes, a crumpled greyback, and the coveted plug of tobacco.

“Nah, y’all are safe for today. Don’t see anything I’m hankering for too badly.” She sits back to Sam’s palpable relief and shoots Amos a grin. “Now if it had been some of that blackberry brandy like your mama sent last time, it’d be different story.”

She shakes the paper open again and opens her mouth to start on the next column when a piercing voice booms through the ward, “Nurse Rigby!”

Charlie cringes on instinct. The men subtly try and hide their cards under blankets and up shirt sleeves.

“Should’ve sent _her_ out against the Yankees,” George mutters under his breath as Madam Pember marches towards them.

“God no,” Sam whispers back, “then I’d actually have to feel sorry for the sons of bitches.”

Their attempts to smother their snickers are poor, earning them all an imperious eyebrow from the daunting hospital matron. Madam Pember curls her hands into fists and plants them on her hips. Her dark hair is pulled back as severely as the expression on her face.

“Nurse Rigby, need I remind you that you are here to work? Not to gamble.”

“We warn’t gambling Missus Pember, ma’am,” George insists with a sour smile.

“Oh really? So I suppose that’s not an eight of clubs you’re hiding, Mr. Howell?” Madam Pember asks archly, jutting her chin towards the card peeking out from one of his stubs.

George looks down and swears.

Amos steps up next, “Sorry ma’am. We just got bored is all. Cards help to pass the time. Don’t be mad at Charlie, she wasn’t even playing. We asked her to read the newspaper to us. She was just being obliging.”

Sweet Amos. Charlie sends him a small smile in thanks.

“Nevertheless, Nurse Rigby is needed elsewhere.” Madam Pember turns to face Charlie directly. “Nurse Boisseau is sick. You need to cover her ward today as well. Now get those linens to the laundry like you should have done an hour ago.” Pember flicks her eyes to the basket full of soiled sheets at Charlie’s feet.

“Yes ma’am,” Charlie mutters, head down. “Sorry I—”

She tries to stand and stumbles, the hem of her dress caught under her own foot. She bites back a curse and swishes out the excess fabric she’d bundled between her legs for comfort while reading. Lord she misses trousers. She bends down to hoist the basket up and onto her hip when another voice rolls down to them preceding the neat clipped tread of well-soled shoes against the wooden floor.

“Ah, Charlotte! Exactly who I was hoping to find!” Dr. McCaw’s timing is impeccable.

She welcomes the interruption even as she winces at his casual address. God, she hates that name— _Charlotte_. It sounds like lace curtains and a cut crystal plate of petit fours. Everything her mother is and wanted her to be.

The tall blond doctor acknowledges Madam Pember with a nod.

“Good afternoon, Madam, I hope you don’t mind but I’m rather in need of borrowing Charlotte here at the moment for a surgery,” he informs her cordially.

Madam Pember stares at him, lips thin. The doctor’s posture remains open and friendly, quietly confident in his authority. The wordless conflict stretches out, mounting tension from the power struggle almost a real, tangible thing. Finally, the matron caves.

She dips her head, “Of course, Dr. McCaw. A surgery certainly takes priority.”

Charlie can see a slight tic in the soft skin under her right eye when Charlie smugly hands the basket of laundry off to her. The matron turns sharply on her heel, back ramrod straight as she walks away even with her new burden. Everyone releases a collective breath when she passes out of sight.

George shivers. “God, that woman is more terrifying than a pack of hornets.”

Josiah bobs his head in agreement.

“Terrifying but also terrifyingly proficient. This place would crumble to the ground without her,” Dr. McCaw admits, his tone one shade short of awed. “Well, Charlotte, I’m afraid time is rather of the essence. Albert is already getting preparations under way.”

He motions for her to follow him and starts walking back in the direction from which he’d come.

She’s two steps away when she hears George grumble, “Why’s he get to call her Charlotte when she’ll box our ears for it?”

She whips around and stomps back to glare at him.

“Because he is the one that pays me, not you sorry sacks.” She sticks her tongue out juvenilely then hurries to catch back up with Dr. McCaw.

“So,” she trots quickly, trying to keep up with the doctor’s long strides, “what is it this time? Is it the arm—that boy from Alabama? Thought it looked a mess when he came in, they should have taken it off ‘fore he ever got here.”

Dr. McCaw turns his face just enough she can see the eyebrow pop in his profile.

“Why, yes indeed. That would in fact be the case. I’m afraid Private Robinson’s wound appears to have turned gangrenous.”

Before excessive pride can bubble up in her chest for having been picked to assist, Dr. McCaw casually shuts that down.

“You’re lucky Rawlins is on furlough and I need the extra set of hands, or I do believe matron Pember would have chained you to a wash tub,” he drawls.

Charlie drops her gaze to her shoes and watches her feet traverse over the plank floorboards. Dr. McCaw sighs.

“It wouldn’t hurt to get on her good side, Charlotte. I agree that her personality leaves something to be desired, but she’s a strong, capable woman much like yourself. You could learn a lot from her if you stopped being so antagonistic…”

Charlie has to bite her tongue. It’s not her who is being antagonistic. Pember had disliked her from day one. The moment the matron had caught wind of her presence she had decided Charlie was an inconvenience – declaring they’d have to move her out of the general wards elsewhere for propriety’s sake. Things had worsened when Charlie refused to hobble around in a skirt while on crutches, then soured completely when Dr. McCaw took her on staff and started requesting her to attend him on occasion.

He’d told her once it was because she had neater stitches than any of the men and could put them in without getting jelly-knees like the other female nurses who were mostly there to clean and cook. She believes that’s only a partial reason. Having a woman nearby during an operation seemed to have a pacifying effect on many of the patients. Charlie had never considered herself to be a particularly nurturing person and many of the patients had teased her for her sometimes brusque manner, but she was learning. Her touch and tone had gentled greatly in the past two years.

They exit the converted barracks and she takes a fortifying breath. It’s impossible to completely escape the stench of human filth and illness but the hospital’s hilltop location and the wide avenues between buildings allows the breeze to carry most of it away. The building they conduct operations in is at the eastern edge of camp to try and help with the noise. Screams don’t do much good for the already sapped morale of wounded men.

Inside, Albert, one of the apprentice surgeons, already has the area mostly set up. All of Dr. McCaw’s tools are neatly laid out on a table pushed against the left wall. The ground is scattered with sawdust and there’s a steaming bucket of boiled horsehair in the corner. Private Robinson is laid out on the operating table, his shirt already stripped to reveal the swollen putrefying wound just below his right elbow. Blackening sores spread from where the bullet was originally dug out.

Charlie goes up to his head and smiles softly, though she’s not sure he notices. His skin is sweat-slicked, cheeks flushed with fever, and his eyes dart rapidly about the room. She strokes the damp hair back from his face.

“Hey there, Private. How are you doing?” she asks with false cheer.

His eyes fix on her with effort, honey brown. Good, it will distract him from Dr. McCaw checking over his scalpels and scrapers.

“Scared,” he forces out through chattering teeth.

“Scared? What for? You’re in the best hands you can be. Dr. McCaw here, he ain’t just a sawbones—he’s the sawbones. This is his hospital and he’s head surgeon,” she soothes while carding fingers through his hair.

“I don’t—I don’t wanna—”

“You’re not gonna die, Private. You’ve got the best of the best working on you.”

He swallows nervously, “No. I don’t—I can’t lose my arm. Please. Don’t take it. How am I gonna work when I get back home if I can’t—”

His attention starts to drift behind her.

She taps his cheek. “What’s your name, Private?”

“B-Billy.”

Charlie shushes him. “I’m not gonna lie, Billy. I know you don’t want to, but if that arm doesn’t come off you’re going to die. And I’m not inclined to let that happen.”

The tentative calm she had established is washed away. Billy tries to sit up, jacking himself up on the elbow of his good arm and swiveling his hips to the side like he’s thinking of sliding off the table.

“Albert!” Charlie shouts.

The surgeon’s assistant dashes forward from where he’d been conversing with Dr. McCaw. He’s smaller than the man on the table, but in full health and although he has to strain to do so, he’s able to keep Billy pinned down.

“Charlie, administer the chloroform,” Dr. McCaw orders, as he restrains Billy’s legs from kicking out at the other end of the table.

Charlie quickly turns and retrieves a bottle of chloroform and applicator cone and sponge. She douses the sponge in the anesthetic, places it at the tip of the cone, and positions the open end over Billy’s mouth and nose. It takes nine long minutes for the chloroform to take effect. Still, it’s better than the seventeen required for ether. She shudders remembering the hellish three weeks in February when heavy snows had delayed supply deliveries and they had to make do without either. Chimbarazo might primarily be a convalescent hospital, but there always seemed to be a need for them.

Even after his eyes roll into the back of his head, their patient’s body continues to thrash. She ends up having to brace her left arm down across his chest to help Albert keep him still. Her back is killing her. She grits her teeth and focuses on the writhing man beneath her. She bears down harder, but he is young and well built and almost throws her off when he bucks up. Sweat drips down the side of her face, tickling her cheek and chin as it goes. She doesn’t stop to wipe it away. His shouts peter out into a final groan and he goes limp. She sighs and eases slightly, but does not move away. Not until Dr. McCaw waves her off.

“That should be enough, Charlotte, thank you.”

She removes the applicator from his face and pushes off his chest with her left. At the other end of the table, Dr. McCaw lets go of the man’s legs and makes his way towards them to inspect the wound more thoroughly now that he doesn’t have to worry about causing their patient pain. She sets the materials aside and places her hands on her hips, jutting them forward until her spine cracks.

She listens to Dr. McCaw and Alfred talk, both their heads bent over the necrotic flesh, while she starts preparing sutures.

“Now, see how the color is clearly demarcated? It hasn’t quite reached the elbow yet. I think we can take it off there and avoid having to go above,” Dr. McCaw murmurs clinically.

“But isn’t it more difficult to go through the joint than straight through the Humerus?” Albert asks.

Dr. McCaw hums thoughtfully, “More complex maybe. I’d have to use the excision saw to separate the Humeral capitulam – but in the end this way you don’t have to shave the bone end down so healing is accelerated.”

Charlie threads a strand of pliant boiled horsehair through the eye of a curved cutting edge needle while Dr. McCaw directs Albert where to set the tourniquet. She’s locked the needle in the grip of a forceps when a tactful cough distracts her. Madam Pember stands like a bad penny in the doorway, a young slave girl waits behind her. What can it possibly be now?

“Excuse me, Nurse Rigby, but there’s a gentleman waiting outside to see you,” Madam Pember interjects coolly.

Dr. McCaw looks up from tying off the tourniquet. “A gentleman caller, Charlotte?” he asks, mustache twitching in amusement. “How curious. I did not think you susceptible to such whimsies.”

Charlie opens and closes her mouth, wanting to protest but not quite sure how.

“I confess myself surprised as well sir, for I certainly have no knowledge of any such individual or engagement for today,” she answers after a moment, brow wrinkled in confusion.

“He says he’s an agent from Miss Barton’s Office of Missing Soldiers,” Madam Pember elucidates. “He’s looking for a _Charles Burleigh_ ,” she adds pointedly. “I thought you would want to be made aware.”

Charlotte swears under her breath, but it’s still too loud to avoid a glare from Madam Pember and a smothered chuckle from Albert. She scowls at the apprentice surgeon. When she turns to appeal to Dr. McCaw, he arches one thick blond eyebrow.

“Even more curious. By all means, Charlotte, go attend to the gentleman.” He points his chin towards the exit.

“But the surgery, sir?”

“Abby can assist in your place,” Madam Pember assures her, gesturing to the slave girl.

Abby’s eyes go wide and her brown skin takes on a distinctly green cast when Dr. McCaw lifts the excision saw from its velvet lined box and the brass saw-toothed links tinkle against each other. Charlotte is somewhat less confident in the girl’s abilities than Madam Pember. Nonetheless she reluctantly hands off the prepared suture set to the slave. She wipes her hands on her apron, trying to rub the sweat off her palms and twists the silver band on her finger. When she finally starts moving forward, she walks slowly, wishing the distance to the door of the converted barracks was longer.

The man waiting just outside stops her in her tracks, breath catching in her lungs, because for a few seconds he could almost be Jesse.

Then the moment passes and she can breathe again. He’s tall like Jesse, taller than most men, but his shoulders aren’t broad enough. When the sun hits his hair the strands glow a deep mahogany, not blue-black. His eyes are bottle-green instead of blue. His suit is too neat and tidy. What stands out to her most though is the lack of those gorgeous grooves around his mouth. Jesse was always grinning about something. This man is solemn in a way her lover never was. Jesse could always make her laugh; even when there was precious little to find humor in. _God, she misses him_ —

The man notices her stare and raises his eyebrows. She blushes furiously, blotchy mauve mottling her cheeks. She wants to explain; she wasn’t assessing him that way. He’s an attractive man in his own regard, but…

“Excuse me, sir, are you the agent who spoke with Madam Pember?” she practically spits the words, she’s so desperate to get them out of her mouth and this over with.

His eyes flick back to her from where they had wandered past her shoulder, watching the barrack door expectantly. She feels him take her in, much as she had done him a second ago. His glance lingers at her shorn hair pulled back with a length of ribbon and the small scars that freckle the right side of her face, no doubt wondering at their origins – and no doubt whatever conclusion he arrives at will be woefully far from the truth. They’d been shelled while marching, a cannonball tearing through the trees and burying into a nearby trunk, sending out a spray of splinters. She’d been lucky not to catch one in the eye. A sergeant from the 10th Virginia Infantry ahead of her had not been as fortunate.

He offers a polite smile, “Yes ma’am. That would be me. Owen Foster, at your service.”

“Nurse Rigby,” she identifies herself in return. “I was told you were looking for someone.”

Confusion flashes across his face. Then his eyes widen a fraction as if struck by a startling realization before he schools it all back into a blandly genteel expression. That more than anything has her hackles rising.

“Um, yes—a Charles Burleigh.”

“I wasn’t aware y’all were too interested in helping anyone but your own boys,” she hedges suspiciously.

He doesn’t sound like a Yank. There’s a slight twang to his cultured tone, something he’s tried to stomp out but can’t quite erase. It’s not the rolling drawl of her dear Carolinas. She wonders where he’s from.

The agent grimaces.

“The office is… _Non-partisan_ ,” he states, carefully politic. “Our concern is with helping bring closure to all of the grieving families afflicted by this calamity. It would be unchristian-like to refuse them, no matter which side of the conflict they support.”

Foster pulls out an envelope from where it was tucked between the pages of the red clothbound notebook in his hand. “His family is looking for him. The office received an inquiry. I was able to track him to Seabrook. According to their records he was brought in after the engagement at Chancellorsville and then transferred here. I was hoping to be admitted access to your logs to see if he had been discharged or deceased. When I spoke with Madam Pember, however, she gave me the impression that Mr. Burleigh was a still a resident here.”

Charlotte eyes the small yellow envelope with apprehension. Her nails dig into the fleshy palms of her clenched firsts.

“Ma’am, are you quite alright?” Mr. Foster’s voice drops into what Charlotte supposes is meant to be a comforting tone. “You look wan, would you like to find a place to sit?”

She shakes her head. “Forgive me, Mr. Foster. I’m fine… It’s been a long day. May I see the inquiry?”

She gestures to the envelope.

“No,” he frowns and tucks it back into the notebook, holding the notebook closer to his chest protectively, “I’m afraid not. It would be untoward to share with anyone other than Mr. Burleigh himself. Now can you or can you not take me to him?”

A sardonic puff of air escapes Charlotte’s nostrils. “Yes, I can take you to him. If you’ll follow me please.”

Foster continues to watch her with mild concern, but allows her to lead him to the far Northern end of the hospital camp. She navigates them through the neat rows of buildings, trying to avoid the worst of the muddy, over-trodden lanes. Foster looks back over his shoulder at the retreating lines of barracks in puzzlement as they leave the hospital camp behind and approach Broad Street.

“I’m sorry, Nurse Rigby, I don’t mean to be rude, but I thought you were taking me to see Mr. Burleigh.”

“I am.” She points North-East where the land slopes uphill. “He’s buried there in Oakwood Cemetery. Charles Burleigh is dead, Mr. Foster. You may tell them so in your response.”

Foster’s frown deepens. “No. I cannot.”

Charlie’s eyes narrow to slits. “And why not, Mr. Foster?”

“Because you and I both know that would be a lie, and I do not appreciate this game of yours Miss Burleigh.”

Charlie’s jaw drops open in shock.

“You knew?” she chokes.

He nods.

“Your name is Charlotte Burleigh. You enlisted under the name of Charles Burleigh and were mustered into 2nd Regiment South Carolina Infantry, Company I on May 23rd during the very first year of this war in Charleston. The name threw me off initially. But then I remembered Rigby was the name of your beau, wasn’t it?” he asks, not unkindly. “Your family is looking for you, Miss Burleigh. They miss you deeply. How would you like for me to respond?”

_Your family is looking for you._ Why? So they can drag her back home to be the resident embarrassment all over again? To lock up in her room shamefully, good reputation in tatters? To be the neighborhood curiosity? _Did you see? Did you see the Burleigh girl—heard she ran off with that Rigby boy; dressed up like a man and joined the army? Living surrounded by nothing but men for years! I can’t even imagine, must have been filthy. Don’t be too hard on the girl, I bet she knows how to grab a saddle horn good and well now._

She _won’t_ go back.

“Tell them she’s dead.”

Foster balks at her coldness. “But Miss Bur—”

“Charlotte Burleigh died two years ago in Seabrook. The girl that was their daughter, she doesn’t exist anymore.”

It’s not really a lie.

“You would have your family think you dead? You’d condemn them to grieve needlessly?” he asks incredulously.

She throws up her hands in exasperation, “Then tell them nothing! Surely there are other cases more deserving of your time and efforts than one person who doesn’t wish to be found.”

“Ma’am, please don’t ask that of me. There is no agony greater than the curse of uncertainty,” he pleads.

There is a wretchedness in his green eyes that has her swallowing back the poisonous remark at the tip of her tongue.

“Pardon me, Nurse Rigby, but I know well what it’s like to lose loved ones. All of my family is dead and gone. I’ve seen every one of them buried. Except for my little brother, who they buried a box of his toys for in his stead. I know—I know he’s gone, same as the rest of them, but sometimes…” Foster’s throat bobs harshly up his neck. “Nurse Rigby, don’t ask me to make another suffer the same way.”

Charlotte closes her eyes, ashamed at her own selfishness.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she breathes.

“As am I for yours,” he responds, nodding to the ring on her finger.

She looks down at the smooth metal band and gives it a twist. The feel of it gliding over her skin grounds her. He holds out the small yellow envelope.

“Please, at least—at least take this, read it, and think on it. It’s from your sister, Anne.”

Anne. Of course it would be Anne and not Mama or Papa. If it had been either of them she may be tempted to let Foster keep whatever was in that letter to himself. She wasn’t interested in anything they had to say. But Anne…

She takes the envelope from his hand and abhors how her fingers tremble. Never when putting in stitches or cleaning out pus-filled wounds, but when she wakes up in a cold sweat, ears pounding with the phantom sound of artillery fire... She doesn’t know why they’re trembling now.

“I’m boarding at the Broad Street Hotel for at least the next few weeks. If you change your mind, you can bring your reply there and I’ll post it for you.”

Charlie nods in a quick jerk of her neck, lips spasming into a tight unpleasant smile. He departs with a joyless wave. She mindlessly watches him recede into the distance, until he reaches Broad Street and turns left, likely to return to his room at the hotel to clean up in time for supper. His gait is rapid and purposeful, without that slow wonderful roll of the hips Jesse moved with. How could she have ever thought he looked like him? In his neatly pressed suit and careful expressions. He seems the type to clean up before supper, even if it’s just at the rundown tavern attached to the hotel. She sniffs and looks down at the envelope in her hand. She shoves it in a pocket. Damn.

She turns and makes her way back to the hospital encampment. The letter feels like it’s going to burn a hole through the cotton of her pocket. She’s so distracted by it she stumbles straight into someone’s crutch. A hand grabs at the back of her dress before she trips face first in the dirt.

“Whoa there, girlie—oh hey, Charlie,” Sam greets her, lending a steadying arm. “You looked like you were on a warpath there. Everything all right? Pember didn’t give you too much hell did she?”

“What? Oh. No. Nothing to do with her. I—There was a man here. With a letter from my sister.”

“Your sister? Didn’t know you had one of those. You never talked about one.”

Charlie rolls her eyes. “Sam, in all these years have I ever talked about my family?”

He tips his head to the side. “Fair point. Not really. I gotta be in the kitchen soon. Been told there’s a pile of potatoes waiting to be peeled with my name on ‘em.”

He nudges her with his crutch behind the mess hall. The outside benches are scattered with loitering men. Charlie sits heavily on one of the unoccupied ones. Sam takes his time to sit next to her. He stretches out his good leg and props the crutch so it won’t fall over. Then he pulls a plug of tobacco from his trouser pocket and fits it between his bottom lip and teeth.

“Must’ve won after all,” Charlie notes drolly.

Sam grins. “Yeah. Sure did. Got lucky. Right after you left some young buck from I dunno, somewhere near here, dropped in. Just gotten a box from home filled with treats. Made it worth winning.” He fishes around to pull a small bottle from his jacket. “Got this too.” He waggles the bottle in front of her face.

She gasps and reaches for it. Sam holds it above her head playfully.

“Now it ain’t no blackberry brandy. But it’ll do. George was spittin’ mad when I laid down a flush,” he beams proudly.

“I’ll bet,” Charlie snorts.

Sam drops his arm and hands her the bottle.

“I figured it’d be best for everyone if he didn’t get it. Remember last time he got soaked?”

“Oh god, how could I forget?” Charlie moans. “I was the one that had to clean it up. Threw his waste pan at Howard hard enough to damn near knock him down then vomited and pissed all over himself and his cot.”

Sam chuckles. “Yeah. Good times. George is an ass, but he sure is good for a story.”

Charlie unstoppers the bottle and takes a swig. It’s noxious but drinkable. She savors the burn and gives the bottle back. Sam takes a long pull. He smacks his lips approvingly.

“Well, that’ll make potato peeling a mite more bearable.”

“Just be careful with that knife when you do. Can’t have you losing any more bits than you already have,” Charlie teases, bumping his shoulder.

“Oh, what’s a finger or two? I didn’t much need the foot, anyhow,” Sam jokes back before turning serious. “So what’s this that’s got you in such a tizzy then, Charlie?”

Her shoulders slump. “This man came by. Said he was from the Office of Missing soldiers. You know, that agency Miss Barton’s running out of D.C.? Well, he said he was looking for a Charles Burleigh. Got a letter from my sister wanting to know if I was dead or not.”

“And?” Sam prods.

“And, I don’t know! Honestly, I haven’t hardly thought about my family since coming here. But I can’t go back home, Sam. I just can’t. They don’t understand me there.”

Sam sighs sympathetically. “I ken what you’re saying.”

Charlie puts an arm on his shoulder and squeezes now that it’s her turn to administer comfort. Folks weren’t particularly kind to people of Sam’s proclivities either. They had been in the same company together. She’d been shocked when she finally put together all of his passing touches and small favors the night he offered to share his tent after she’d had a bad row with Jesse. He’d been the first and only person she’d revealed herself to before they both ended up riddled with holes. He’d been disappointed at first, cornflower blue-eyes downturned with an embarrassed flush across his freckled cheeks, then thrilled with the ironic humor of it all and they’d quickly become each other’s secret keepers and friends.

She rests her head on his shoulder and turns her face into the rough fabric of his jacket.

“They’d try and shove me in a hoops, can you imagine?” she moans, voice muffled.

Sam gives a short bark of laughter, “I can imagine it all right. You standing there all covered in lace and whatnot, looking happy as a wet cat.”

She punches his arm. “It’s not funny!”

“Oh, it is. But,” he takes a breath, “you said this letter was from your sister. She as bad as all that?”

Charlie twists her ring.

“No. Not really. Anne was always… She didn’t understand, but... I don’t know if she was just trying to keep the peace, but she stuck up for me more than she needed to,” Charlie admits.

Sam plays with the plug of tobacco in his mouth. She can see the bulge moving from cheek to cheek before settling back under his lip.

“Have you read the letter yet?” he asks thoughtfully.

“No.”

“Well, I reckon that oughta be the first thing you do before anything else,” he advises. “You can also always write her back to let her know you’re okay but not tell her where you are, y’know?”

“Huh. That’s a good idea.” Charlie blinks. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, girlie.” Sam winks at her mockingly. He stands and pivots round towards the mess hall. “Well, them potatoes ain’t gonna peel themselves. I better get started before I get a tongue-lashing. See ya round, Charlie.”

“Yeah, yeah. You better, Pember’s already in a mood. And don’t call me girlie!” she shouts after him.

She glares at the men sitting nearby in case they get any ideas regarding nicknames and resumes her journey back to living quarters. She’s relieved to find the room she shares with three other women empty for now. She collapses onto her cot and pulls the envelope out from her pocket. Charlie swipes her thumb over the swirling lines of ink. The fluid rise and fall of Anne’s pen strokes is achingly familiar. She works a folded sheet of blue paper from the confines of the envelope and smoothes it flat on her knee.

_Charleston, S. Carolina, Feb. 14, 1863_

_Miss. Barton_

_Dear Madam, I approach you with sorrow and hope in equal amount, but hardly indulge the hope that you can do anything for me. I have heard of your efforts to make known the fates and reunite when possible the killed, wounded, & missing amongst your nation’s troops and humbly request that you would be filled with a spirit of mercy to do so for mine as well – for the bonds of familial love transcends all the pride and divisions of this earth._

_My darling sister Charlotte Burleigh, filled with the romantic notions of youth and patriotic fervor ran away in the May of the first year of this cruel conflict. At the age of 17. I believe Charlotte to have enlisted in Charleston under the guise of a man with Jesse Rigby, a dear childhood friend. We received scarce a letter from either after their disappearance and our several efforts to obtain word of them were fruitless._

_After our investigations we were led to the conclusion they died on the battlefield, or mortally wounded, was conveyed to some farmhouse and may have there been buried. Until Mr. Rigby’s remains were returned home to his mother and father. Neither the Rigbys nor myself know who to thank for the kindness, though it is with a cautious and secret hope I hold that it was done at the hand of my dear Charlotte. I have since learned that the remains were sent from Seabrook Hospital in Richmond shortly after the engagement at Chancellorsville._

_I am writing with the utmost desire for word regarding whether Charlotte was also among that number. She has gray eyes, auburn hair, would of course wear no mustache or beard, was about five feet five in height, and rather spare. If dead please relieve me of my burden of hope, if wounded please direct me so I might visit, if in good health please beseech her to write her sister Anne. Assure that any fear or ill-feeling regarding past circumstances are left firmly in the past and forgotten if she would just come home to us._

_P.S. I neglected to mention the presence of a scar between lip and chin._

_Please direct any response to Anne Wellesley, 114 Radcliffe St., Charleston, S. Carolina._

_P.S. As a child she was affectionately called Charlie by friends and family. She may have enlisted as such and if yet undiscovered may continue to do so._

Charlie stares at the paper. It drifts from her stiff fingers to the floor. The blue rectangle stays crisply arched along its crease lines on the dusty boards. It’s too fine to be left there. She remembers the paper from her sister’s stationery, ordered in from London and embossed with a crown in the top left corner. She bends to pick it back up and blood rushes to her head when rights herself again. Dizzy, she lays down on her side and curls her knees to her chest, the letter tucked safely in the space in between.

For the first time in a long time, she thinks about home.

She thinks about the lace curtains and crystal plates and petit fours. She thinks about an actual bed with soft pillows and sheets, not just a cot and scratchy blanket. She thinks about the scent of her father’s pipe tobacco and pitchers of sweet tea with crushed mint. She thinks of Anne’s melodious contralto, asking her what she got into this time after coming home with a torn skirt and skinned knees. She thinks of how she hadn’t even noticed the tears or the scrapes because she’d been too busy keeping up with Jesse, chasing after his grin.

She thinks of Anne rolling up her sleeves to sit at the writing desk in front of the parlor window so as not to splatter ink on them while she writes a letter begging a woman she’s never met, a Yankee woman, if she knows anything about her little sister - if she’s alive or dead.

For the first time in a long time she lets herself cry.


End file.
